


What Changes?

by twilightshadow



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, but can be read that way, not written as slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:37:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightshadow/pseuds/twilightshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU idea: what if John had "died" at in Reinchenbach rather than Sherlock? Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Changes?

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that just came to me. I have no excuses. No real violence in this but Sherlock definitely entertains thoughts of it. You can read this as shippy if that is what your little heart desires, but I didn't write it that way.

                Sherlock watches.

                The street is quiet, but he’s not watching the street. He’s watching his laptop, where an email from Mycroft has cropped up.

                _I may have a lead for you on Moran. MH._

                Sherlock knows he’ll be here any second. _Three…two…one._ The slam of a car door.

                “Sherlock?”

                He says nothing. Mycroft simply entered and lays the file on his desk, beside his laptop and freezing cup of tea. Sherlock barely acknowledges his presence, but picks up the file and begins to read.

                Mycroft sighs. He stares around the flat, still as much of a mess as it ever had been. Some things about Sherlock would never change.

                “Really, brother? It’s been three years. Can you not let it go?”

                Sherlock tenses, and finally looks up at his older brother. There’s a dangerous look in his eyes. That’s all the answer Mycroft is going to get. He gives up and leaves.

 

                The Yarders know it’s because of what happened to John that keeps Sherlock turning up at crime scenes. But the tall figure, striding along, looks lonely without the sure tread of the army doctor matching his footsteps, perfectly in time.

                The crime scenes seem empty, Lestrade thought. Sherlock was always a little aloof, but John had made him more approachable – voicing opinions of his own, forcing Sherlock to reveal more of his observations. Lestrade had learned a lot from this. The Yarders had preferred talking to John anyway as they were less likely to be hit by a bottle of well-aimed vitriol, but even Sherlock had softened a little since the short but fiery army doctor had entered his life. Lestrade would never forget that Christmas he had actually apologised to Molly Hooper for jumping to conclusions and hurting her feelings.

                Yes, he missed John as much as the next man, but it was circumstances of the man’s death that had gotten to Sherlock. One of the men behind it was still at large, and Sherlock had not once stopped looking for him. That was the only reason he left the flat some days, Lestrade thought. Determination to find the man in part responsible for orchestrating the events that had led to John tumbling, with Moriarty, into the raging Thames in the grip of a summer storm.

                And while everyone agrees that John had been good for Sherlock, that his presence changed him subtly to make him seem more human, his death changed him into something nobody could recognise. Playing his violin at all hours nobody cares about anymore – it’s the norm for strange sounds to come out of 221B Baker Street after all. It’s the eerie quiets that fall in between that bother Mrs Hudson. Either he’s out chasing down some other obscure lead or he stays in and lies on the sofa, fingers steepled, thinking.

Of course Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson will never let onto Sherlock that the team are keeping an eye open. Of course he will never mention that his brother, Mycroft (seems Sherlock’s not the only one cursed with a funny name), calls in frequently to discuss anything new which may have come to light. Of course, Sherlock will never understand that everyone who has ever known John H. Watson, MD, is working behind Sherlock, with Sherlock, for closure for themselves.

                Lestrade thinks it’ll be a race to see who would want to get their hands on this Moran character first. Sherlock, or Lestrade himself.

 

                 

 

                And Sherlock?

                He knows that everyone would assume that, with John gone, he would revert to talking to the skull, or to himself. But he takes no delight in proving them wrong. Talking to the skull merely reminds him that nobody was around to talk back any more, to tell him off for stealing his computer, to remind him that ‘even the worlds’ only consulting detective needs to eat.’

_“Transport, John.”  
“Bollocks.” A toasted sandwich on a plate plunked down beside him. “Eat it.” And when he had protested, “Now, Sherlock!”_

                Part of him had, in the past, thought about what he would be like without John, and had concluded that it would not be difficult to go back to his old ways. He’d worked well like that, he could survive again like that. He’s surprised, and not altogether pleased, that this hasd not been the case.

                He’ll never be a people person. They’re all so stupid they gave him a headache. For this reason he’d shunned company until his need to escape his family and everything he associated with it made it essential that he find a flatmate. He had put the word out, but his reputation (obviously) preceded him and he was getting desperate (a new sensation for him since he’d come off the cocaine), when enter John Watson, unexpectedly, stage left, and he’d discovered company, and a man who had an answer for everything he said, no matter how unexpected it may have seemed to him. Sherlock finds himself missing him to the point of pain. Another new sensation.

                Whatever Sherlock’s feelings, however, Moran has to be tracked down. Somebody – possibly Lestrade, more likely Mycroft – gave him some twaddle about ‘needing closure,’ but it’s more than that. Moran is the last of Moriarty’s trusted henchmen. With him gone, the structure of the organisation, already unsteady after the death of its leader, would collapse entirely.

                Maybe then he can put John to rest. Maybe then he can say that his flatmate, his partner, _his John_ did not die in vain.

                John is also suffering from the separation, though Sherlock’s not to know it. Hell, Sherlock doesn’t even know he’s alive…

 

 

                John’s biggest problem is boredom. A safe house in the middle of nowhere is never going to be the most interesting of places, but for an ex-5th Northumberland Fusiliers RAMC doctor turned companion to a mad sleuth, it’s hell on earth.

_“Remind me again why I have to do this?”_

_Mycroft sighed. “Because there will now be powerful people chasing you. It’s for your own safety.”_

_“I can take care of myself.”_

_“And it will be much easier for Sherlock to take them out if he has a cause to fight for.”_

_“What’s that?”_

_“Avenging you.”_

                When Mycroft’s people had pulled John out of the Thames after two hours clinging to a barge and whisked him away to hospital, he expected some kind of congratulations. After all, Moriarty had kidnapped him and tried to throw him off Blackfriars Bridge. John had managed to overpower the mastermind and had been pulled over the edge with him…

_The psychopath’s eyes were burning into his in hideously childish delight. “The heart of Sherlock Holmes…” he said, almost reverently._

_John stirred a little more strongly now the drug had almost worn off._

_“Too bad he can’t be here to see this. But he’ll know it was me.” Moriarty was almost talking to himself. His words were muffled by the sound of the storm around them. “Gotta count for something, eh, Johnny boy?”_

_John gritted his teeth._

_Moriarty, who seemed to be alone, hauled the doctor to his feet and threw him against the edge of the bridge. John got an eyeful of the swirling waters beneath and realised what was going to happen. He wouldn’t survive. Nobody could survive that._

_“I’m going to enjoy this,” the consulting criminal hissed. “Breaking Sherlock Holmes.”_

_John thought of Sherlock, and all his insistence of ‘high-functioning sociopathy’ and his ham-fisted methods of dealing with people. He also recalled standing with him in the hallway at Baker Street and giggling like maniacs after chasing that taxi across the rooftops, the panic in Sherlock’s voice when that CIA agent had threatened to shoot John, the way he smiled when John made some observation that Sherlock had failed to notice…yes, he would be broken. He would also never stop chasing Moriarty down, and get himself killed in the process._

_So John did the obvious. He fought back. He threw back his head, knocking Moriarty backwards._

_Though still a little woozy from the drug, John wheeled and grabbed Moriarty, just as the psychopath grabbed him. They wrestled for a minute or so. John brought his knee up into the other mans’ groin, again and again. Moriarty fell back against the parapet. For some reason, he was still laughing._

_“Nice try, Johnny boy.” And he lost his balance and fell back, over the edge, still holding firmly onto the doctor._

                John remembers very little after that, just that Moriarty was dead, had been found washed up many miles downstream a week later, so said Mycroft.

And Sherlock…was fine, as he went. Nobody really knew how fine, since he kept himself to himself, and as Mrs Hudson had once said “How should we know what goes on in that funny old head of his?” Sherlock – the constant enigma. Actually, Enigma was probably easier to crack.

John sighs, and glances around. _Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored._ He understands now, why Sherlock had shot the wall, the bell, the cupboards…why he always had all those little experiments going. They’re not just a product of his creative and inquisitive mind, they’re also another weapon against the boredom. Mycroft allows him out for walks, but only under heavy surveillance. Bit pointless, since the closest he’s come to death in the last three years was avoiding an angry cow. Once. Two years ago.

So John fills his days with writing. Sheet clutter the desk and floor. Not a novel, or an autobiography, more a paper version of his blog, since he’s been blocked from it by Mycroft. He records his memories, what he’s thinking about (mostly Sherlock, who still wouldn’t leave him alone, even when he thought he was dead), ranting about things like boredom, wasting time, missing friends, colleagues, the army…Sherlock. Anything to stop him getting self-destructive. Anything to get it out of his head.

He feel sorry for the detective, He knows that, if the positions were reversed, he would be feeling lonely, probably withdrawing into his own, depressed world. He wouldn’t have left the flat except to go to work or the local supermarket, ignoring the phone, the internet, his laptop…

He wondered how Sherlock would be taking it. Not like him. But John never knew with that man. The memories make him smile as well as cry.

But John isn’t to know that today, everything changes.

His phone rang.

 

The noise makes him jump after the long silence. John checks the number, then groans and picks it up. “Hello Mycroft…”

“John. Good news. I feel that events are drawing to a close, but I shall need your help tonight.”

 

_“WHAT.”_

Sherlock’s voice was icy cold. A stark contrast to the fury rising in him.

“I’ve kept him perfectly safe, but Moran has somehow found out about him. He’s going over there tonight. I’ve already arranged transport…”

 _“MYCROFT!_ You mean to tell me that John has been ALIVE  this whole time and, what? You…you…you’ve kept him in the country?! Closeted away like…like some…like some Christmas present while you make me dance for you?!” The normally eloquent Sherlock stumbled over his words in his rage serving to add fuel to the fire.

“Calm yourself, Sherlock. Getting angry solves nothing.”

“Oh really? Did he ask for this, did you think he would appreciate being hidden in a corner while the rest of the world moved on? You know, for all your share of the family heritage, _brother_ , you can be so obtuse!”

Only silence from Mycroft.

Sherlock took a deep breath. _I’ll deal with you later, brother dearest._ “So Moran is going to John’s safe house. Tell me the plan.”

 

 

The house was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from a single window with the next curtains drawn. Apparently the place looked quite picturesque in daylight, but Sherlock, standing at his vantage point at one end of the garden, could care less.

John was alive. _His John,_ still alive, but walled up in this pretty prison, because his damn brother only thought of his best interests, never the other person’s.

Sherlock knew John. He must have been going mad, stuck in there for three years.

Funny, that Mycroft should have been backing Sherlock, the whole time he was searching, first for Moriarty, then for Moran, and all the time working for his own agenda. He was reminded of Irene Adler. She, too, had had her own agenda, playing her own game, making Sherlock dance. Like Moriarty before her.

But Sherlock had respected and admired Irene’s intelligence and determination. It had made him rethink his opinion on woman’s wit.  Moriarty, too, had had an intellect to be respected. Sherlock had been almost sorry when he turned up dead (almost, because he had killed… _tried_ to kill John). Mycroft, on the other hand, was about to find his home booby trapped from one end to another, and not all of them harmless fun.

A silhouette appeared behind the net curtain. A familiar profile, though the net curtain made it indistinct. _John. Do you even know I’m here?_

Yet there was something wrong. It was too rigid, even for John…

A twig snapped. Sherlock’s brain suddenly switched from deduction mode to red alert and he shrank back into the shadows.

He followed the sound to around a hundred metres to his right. Crouching in the undergrowth, he waited.

The dark figure was hunched against the black backdrop, only partially visible in the light spill from the window. He seemed to be setting up some sort of apparatus. The silence of the night amplified the quiet clicks and clacks of whatever it was. Sherlock had his suspicions, but they were confirmed when the man moved slightly, and the light glinted off the curves and sight of a top-of-the range rifle, complete with sniper sights. It was too dark to make out make and model, but it was clear who it was for. The man standing in the window, gazing out onto the night. John Watson.

Sherlock had to get closer. Taking his coat off, he began to slip through the undergrowth towards the sniper.

 _Moran. You and that organisation will not take John from me again._ Sherlock was nothing if not possessive.

Moran, by now, was crouched behind the sight, lining up his shot, and here Sherlock stopped as a dilemma struck him.

Jump now, while he was on red alert, and he was more likely to die himself.

Jump afterwards, when the shooter was full of his success and thereby distracted, and he sacrificed John.

Moran had been in a sniper unit in the army and had been well regarded as the best crack shot in first the Gulf and then Iraq. There was no chance he would miss.

_John. Or himself._

When put in those terms, the choice was an easy one.

He had only seconds. He crept forward again. There was now less than three feet between him and Moran, a gap either of them could cross in a heartbeat.

And, very suddenly, he knew when to strike.

_Now!_

The instant Moran’s finger tightened on the trigger, Sherlock sprang onto his back, knocking over both him and the gun. His opponent threw him off quickly and leapt to his feet, just as a dark shadow appeared behind him and clocked him over the head with the butt of his own gun.

Moran dropped like a stone at John’s feet.

 

He looked down at him, a neutral expression on his face in the dim light.

“You could always have rung the doorbell, you know,” he said to the prone figure.

Sherlock could only look at him. Three years had no touched his face whatsoever.

“So what was in the window?”

“Mmm? Oh, a dummy some sculptor Mycroft threatened made of me.”

 

Lights were starting to come on, the police had started to arrive, but the two men just stood there, drinking in the sight of the other over the unconscious body of their enemy.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

“I’m going to kill Mycroft, you know.”

Sherlock expected a morals lecture. Instead what was got was, “Not if I beat you to it.”

Nothing more needed saying as they reached out and embraced.

 

 

Baker Street – Two weeks later.

 

                “Sherlock, are those _tongues_ in the water filterer?”

                “It’s an experiment.”

                “How did I know that?” John muttered as he filled the kettle from the tap.

                Sherlock was tapping away on his phone and barely glanced at the cup of tea John placed in front of him.

                Nothing had changed, and yet so much was different. The atmosphere was no longer brooding, but cheerful. John was more likely to laugh at body parts everywhere rather that shout, though Sherlock suspected that would change after a few months. He himself, ate without complaining, and even slept when he had no cases on. Life in Baker Street was gradually returning to normal.

 

                John’s return had been met with a mixed bag of laughter and tears of joy (Molly had sobbed for ten minutes straight into his shoulder. Mrs Hudson had required an hour to stop crying). Donovan had produced a rare smile when he had shown up at the Yard with Sherlock a few days after moving back into London, and even Anderson had shaken his hand. He had been hauled away to the pub but all his old army/rugby mates, along with half the Yard, and was made to tell his story again and again. Sherlock had endured this just to be able to sit alongside him and know he was okay, though he declined any alcohol, and supported a rather worse-for-wear doctor home again afterwards. He would be loath to let the man out of his sight for a good six months. Mycroft would be cleaning frogspawn out of his hot water tank for about as long again. And John didn’t mind the babysitting, as he would have three years ago.

 

                But one thing would always remain the same. Sherlock’s phone rang.

                “Sherlock Holmes.”

                John watched his flatmate’s face change, and knew exactly what was coming next.

                “We’ll be right there.” He hung up, and sprang into action, grabbing his coat and scarf. Then he looked at John. “Coming?” He held out his hand.

                John grinned and took it.

                Giggling like maniacs, Sherlock towed John out of the flat and on to the rest of their lives. 


End file.
